A Picture’s Worth

By Rowan Mc Bride

– One –

My first tangle with Mason Ripley happened in Central Park, because I dared to interrupt him while he snapped candid pictures of people enjoying the first day of spring. I didn’t know his name, then. I didn’t know anything about him, except that I wanted him to take my picture too.

It took me a few minutes to get up the nerve to make a move. That was strange for me. I was six-foot-five, 295 pounds. I was one of the top bodybuilders in the country. High intensity situations were, well, a walk in the park for me.

But something about this guy had me off balance from the get-go. On the outside, he seemed so casual; dressed in a brown, scuffed leather jacket and a pair of faded blue jeans. He had a mop of brown hair that blew around when the breeze did. Just another guy in the park . . . with a camera that put the ones on my photo shoots to shame.

He crouched, a smile playing on his lips as he took a picture of a little girl. I tilted my head to the side, stole a look at his round ass as they filled out his jeans.

Okay, I wanted him to do more than take my photograph.

With my hands in my pockets, I walked forward. My tall, broad frame cast a shadow over him. “Hey, I’m—”

“In my light,” he said, not looking up from his camera.

I stopped short. “Oh, sorry.” I walked around to his other side. “How’s that?”

He snapped another picture. “Thanks.”

What little momentum I had was gone, and I fumbled for something to say. “I’m Joe. Joe Wilson.”

He cast a brief glance my way before returning his attention to his camera. “Mason Ripley.”

His total disinterest floored me. I was a huge guy. I inspired awe in everyone I met: male or female, gay or straight. My best pick-up line was my body, and now I actually had to say something. “So . . . taking some pictures?”

Aw, fuck. What was that!

He answered me, though. And he didn’t seem annoyed, just unimpressed. “Yep.”

The little girl got up and ran to her family. He smiled as he watched her go.

He had a great mouth. Full lips that seemed soft, but not unmasculine. I wanted to see a close-up of that mouth. More specifically, I wanted to see it on my cock.

He got up, started to leave.

I couldn’t let him go, and the single, desperate word was out of me before I could think of something more suave. “W-Wait.”

He turned, an expression of vague curiosity on his face. “Yeah?”

“C-Could you take my picture?”

His brown eyes looked me up and down. “No. But thanks for the offer.”

What the hell? I felt as if I’d just been shot down after asking him out. “Why not?”

His face was gentle, friendly. His voice was polite and calm. “You’re not very photogenic, and I’d hate to waste the film.”

All of my awkwardness vanished as my hands left my pockets, clenched into fists. No one was crazy enough to insult me, especially when they stood a full head shorter. “Where do you get off, talking to me like that? Just because you take a weekend and snap some pictures in the park, you think you’re God’s gift?” I took a menacing step forward. “I’ve been on the cover of Muscle & Fitness, asshole. What have you done?”

To my utter surprise, he cracked a smile. “Muscle & Fitness, huh? Why do you want to be photographed by an ass like me?”

His teasing tone threw me for a loop. I had a feeling he would always do that. The awkwardness flooded back. “You . . . You see people.”

“What?”

God, I should have taken another route today. “When you take pictures, you see people for what they really are. I-I can tell.”

His grin widened a fraction. “Those big time magazine photographers don’t do that?”

I glanced away. “No.”

“And you want me to see you. Is that it?”

So embarrassing to admit this, to a total stranger no less. But lately I’d been feeling empty. Invisible. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time. “Yeah.”

“Here’s the thing, Joe Wilson.” He leaned forward, caught my gaze. He smelled like grass and a touch of leather. “You’re . . . blank. There’s nothing there to see.”

My brow furrowed. “That’s not true.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

He straightened. “Well, that burst of anger earlier was interesting.” One hand slipped his camera into the bag around his neck while the other unzipped a compartment on the side. “I don’t have a studio, but I have a little set-up in my apartment.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Tuesday, four o’clock. If you forget, or if you ditch the appointment, then lose my card. People who waste my time irritate me almost as much as people who waste my film.”

The card was simple. His name written in some fancy script, with his address printed clearly underneath it. “I’ll be there. Can I call you Mason?”

He walked away, gave me a careless wave. “You can call me whatever you want. Just don’t be late.”

I stood there on the grass until he was out of sight. This guy had ignored me, called me blank, and tied me into knots without breaking a sweat. I knew I should trash his card and never look back.

I also knew that I would be on time Tuesday, or die trying.

Carefully, I slid his card into my wallet, listened to the thump of my heart as I wondered what his apartment was like.

At that moment, more than anything, I wanted Mason Ripley to see me.

– Two –

I stood outside the door to Mason’s apartment. He lived in the East Village, where a lot of pseudo-Bohemian-artsy types resided these days. A far cry from my place in Union Square.

It was five minutes till four. If I didn’t knock soon, he was going to be irritated. I didn’t want that. I wanted him to want me.

Taking a deep breath, I lifted my hand and rapped on the door. A long silence passed. I was about to knock again when it swung open.

Mason glanced up, seemed almost surprised to find me there. “Joe. Right on time.” He stepped aside. “Come on in.”

He wore a long sleeved, white t-shirt with patches of discoloration over the lower arms, another pair of old jeans with similar patches over the thighs. Work clothes, of some sort.

I’d never seen anything so hot in my life.

As I entered, I thought his apartment was a lot like him. Straightforward, rugged, a little tousled. I paused when I saw the bed in his livingroom. “What’s the deal with this?”

He walked to the other end of the room, turned on some lights mounted on tripods. “The bedroom is my darkroom, so I sleep out here. Stand between the lights.”

I guess we were getting right to it. I stood where he indicated, looked at the white backdrop. “Is this the only background you have?”

Mason chuckled. Warm. Low. “It’s not Sears. Usually I take pictures in more natural settings.”

I turned and stared at him as he pulled out a camera, checked the lens. “Like in Central Park?”

“Central Park’s nice. Take off your jacket.”

I took off my jacket. “Where do I put it?”

“Anywhere you want.”

Looking around, I folded it up and placed it on the corner of his bed. I returned to the backdrop. “Now what?”

He snapped a picture.

“Hey! I wasn’t ready.”

Mason looked over the top of the camera. “So get ready.”

I stood stiffly, my hands hanging by my sides.

That unimpressed expression reappeared. “That’s it?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Reluctantly, he took another picture. He looked about to take another one before lowering the camera. “No, try again.”

Alright, I wasn’t a rookie. I knew how to pose. Spreading my feet apart, I crossed my arms over my chest, causing my biceps to stretch the sleeves of my dress-shirt tight. “How’s that?”

He walked around, studied my profile. “Nope.”

Shit. “Give me some direction. What do you want from me?”

Sighing, he looped the strap of his camera around his neck. “What do you want?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He ran his fingers through his chestnut hair. “Portrait? Action shot? Sexy picture for your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

His eyebrow cocked upward.

Embarrassed now, I broke the pose I’d been holding. “I just want a good picture. Of me.”

“That’s going to be hard, since you seem intent on not letting yourself show.”

It was unnerving, being lectured this way. Suddenly I didn’t know where to look or place my hands or how to stand.

Mason shook his head and replaced the lens cap. “This isn’t going to work. You should go home now.”

Home? “Wait.” Desperate to make him see I was a work of art, I undid the first few buttons of my shirt and whipped it off over my head. I stood before him half-naked, giving him a look at my tanned, sculpted muscles. “There, take your picture.”

His gaze traveled over me a moment before he leaned back against the wall. “You’re showing me your body, not you.”

Stunned, humiliated, I retrieved my shirt. “What have you got against my body?”

“Nothing, it’s the best I’ve ever seen. But I can’t give you the kind of picture you want.”

“Why not?”

He crossed the room, picked up my jacket, and handed it over. “Because you won’t let me.”

“I don’t understand.”

His expression softened. “You don’t have to understand. You just have to know that this session is over.”

How anyone could look so gentle while saying such harsh things was beyond me. “You don’t know me.”

He opened up his front door. “How can I, when you don’t know yourself?”

That hit a nerve I sure as hell didn’t want touched, and I strode out of his apartment. “After a few minutes you think you’ve got me all figured out. A hack photographer who can’t even afford his own studio.”

Mason leaned against the jamb. “Is that it?”

My jaw ticked. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Disappointment colored his features. “Have a safe trip home, Joe.”

The door shut, and I was left standing like an idiot in the hallway.

– Three –

“And you just . . . left?”

I paced the floor in my big sister’s livingroom as she sat on the couch. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

She placed the sheaf of papers she’d been studying on the coffee table and gave me her full attention. “You’re what? Three hundred pounds? Why didn’t you just deck him?”

I folded my arms over my chest and let my back thump against the wall. “Come on, Eilis.”

“I’m serious. If he was as harsh as you say, then why didn’t you set him straight?”

Why hadn’t I? “I don’t know. Something about him . . . twists me up inside.”

Eilis propped her elbows on her knees as she rested her chin on her graceful hands. “Okay, let me make sure I’ve got the facts right. This guy insults you in the middle of Central Park and invites you to his place for a photo session, where he insults you again before tossing you out. And you just let him do it to you.”

I bowed my head, kept my gaze locked on my feet. “That about sums it up.”

“He must be really, really hot.”

Despite my burned ego, I burst into laughter. “He is. But it’s more than that. Mason’s got something . . .”

“Mason?”

“That’s his name. Mason Ripley.”